


How to almost sell your soul

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, Snake Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: He doesn’t touch her again, not with his hands.He doesn’t really need to use his hands.





	How to almost sell your soul

_He_ starts with her name and it’s easy to go from there.

***     *     ***

 

_********They_ tell her they need _her_ help and that’s where ignorance ends.

*     *     *

 

Whispers thread through the outpost at night, snatches of spellcraft or just the return of radio static.

 

*     *     *

 

Beside her an eighth generation Vanderbilt is sallow and dressed in some kind of disarray, sipping mineral water and waiting for dinner with all the meekness of a hamster.

They’re equals now.

It’s what Coco says but it’s a lie. Coco lies and Coco’s a moron.

The arm of the power balance has swung down and around. She’s used to it in a way she can’t shake so easily.

 

*     *     *

 

_“Who are you?”_

She’s never been some next level shit, a trending hashtag with a family name.

She nowhere near the second string to a first fiddle someone she’s almost sure is the devil is playing.

But, there’s a fire in the grate and it warms her from half a room away and she’s not quite sure if no one had come to raise her back up that she would have stayed down on her own.

But, she doesn’t know.

_“I don’t know.”_

 

*     *     *

 

And she’d been wrong about it all.

 

*     *     *

 

She has a family name, she from a long line of women like her, distilled down into one thing above all others, power, prettiness and no pettiness in hers, but power.

Everyone likes the taste of that she’s found even if it makes them all bitter to see it in someone else’s mouth.

 

*     *     *

 

He doesn’t touch her again, not with his hands.

He doesn’t really need to use his hands.

His eyes touch her and they’re like hands.

 

*     *     *

 

If he’s powerful enough to be a supreme then why not her? She thinks, unable to help it, industry returned and questioning the leadership she’s under, the way she’s been stolen from, sent away, hidden like she’s their prize, like her only function has been to serve them.

Cordelia Goode is supreme but she can’t see it going on without challenge now.

 

*     *     *

 

She knows she mostly just a prop so it’s hard to be embarrassed and harder to be disgusted.

She’d shit herself when she died, it’d been unpleasant to wake up like that but not worse than the hot blood flavored contents of her duodenum burning back up into her esophagus and she curls around the remembered pain of it at night.

She’s not quite sure dying in the blast would have been worse.

 

*     *     *

 

She plays with fire and gets caught, she’s ashamed of something he calls _natural talent_ sotto voce with the light dancing in his eyes.

Natural talent, talent like his, he’s sure, she thinks.

She’d been born to be a natural, bred so it’d been assured.

It’s really not so surprising.

 

*     *     *

 

In clothes just as costume as the grey’s uniform she feels the first wave of homesickness, itching for athleisure she never had a penchant for until she’d been brainwashed and locked away in her own mind, the backs of her ears feel strange without the plastic arms of her frames resting on them, the indignity of having parts of her stolen and replaced with a mediocre version that’s lasted like the ghost of a stranger in her body, a stranger some other witch made her to be.

A hands ghosts through her hair as the line of witches passes her in the hall, as he passes, smirking as he goes.

There are no purples or greys, and they all wear black and yet she still feels like she’s serving someone.

Spite rises like smoke from her burning bones.

 

*     *     *

 

She holds her thighs together against the feelings of her dreams and the long glide like the back of hand over her sex, she misses electricity and usb charged accessories, wonders how the devil charges his macbook, wonders if he could spare some socket for the vibrator Coco decided wasn’t Swedishly ergonomic enough to get off on and was going to give to charity while they were both playing false roles in California, a world away from where they were needed.

She twists, chasing something, only half in dark of her room, barely awake, frotting forward as something twists across her pillow and piles in a coil around her ankles.

Her bed is full of snakes and she’s grateful for the period that’s kept her panties on. Her ass is wet from the pooled circle of blood she’s slept in.

It’s impossible to deny that she’s summoned them as much as he has.

The snake pit in her bed gets her off and after, trapped in the fitted sheet she leaves them behind in his own empty room, empty she thinks but he might be crawling on the ceilings for all she really knows, for all she cares.

 

*     *     *

 

“Are you still bleeding?” he asks over dinner.

“You’re a fucking freak,” Madison Montgomery says, but she smirks into her soup when she says it and Mallory wonders what really happened before the world fell down around them.

“Madison, please. Michael.” Cordelia Goode lays down her spoon and sighs, though there’s uneasiness in her, a too heavy swallow and amusement from the antichrist’s side of the table.

“But a witch’s blood is very powerful, don’t you know that?” he asks the starlet.

Madison smirks again, eyes half-lidded and Mallory knows exactly what’s happened since the world’s ended, since before it was even a thought.

Dinner ends with sour dregs.

On the way to the library she can’t help thinking of his head trapped between her thighs, he’d be all velvet tongue and hair she could fist.

He’s behind her, at her ear. “I’d eat my way up to your heart,” he tells her.

She won’t turn around to see if he’s really there, she just keeps walking, has learned to brush things off more easily than she has carrying them around.

 

*     *     *

 

His eyes turn to pitch and she steps back before pushing forward like she has before, he stumbles but doesn’t fall this time.

“You’re not angry enough now,” he taunts, slipping closer, “You’re not scared anymore.” His dinner jacket smells like crushed roses.

She can taste his breath, can see him clearly now. “I know what I am now.”

“And why does that matter?” he asks, mouth pulling up, shaking his head.

“Haven’t you ever worried about what inside of you?” she asks.

He raises one finely arched eyebrow in counter, she considers it in itself, so many options for styling and he’s as impeccable as he’s always looked. 

He’s never been afraid of himself, never tried to hide it, only hide _what_ he is, he distracts with tears, false sincerity, and finally himself, what he has left to offer.

It’s a seduction of everything and everyone.

It’s power but she already knows what power tastes like.

 

*     *     *

 

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

He asks, against her ear, his words are humid and his hands work on her shoulders, close enough to her throat to keep her uncomfortable.

She doesn’t answer, bunches her shoulders tighter together.

“When they test you for the seven wonders would you let me strangle you? I love your neck.”

He puts his mouth on it, she thinks, unsteadily, unsure of if his lips really do settle on her skin. His hair smells like vetiver and apples as it crosses the edge of her chin, falls over her neckline, feathers over her cheek as he departs.

 

*     *     *

 

“I’ll stay.”

_‘What is this? The fucking Hunger Games?’_ she thinks looking at Coco’s hand waving dismissive of her choice where everyone else looks settled, except Madison who would have volunteered herself if only she’d been quicker to speak.

Mallory volunteers as tribute and he looks the second most surprised she’s seen him, which is only really a flicker of something halfway between unsure smirk and scowl.

And later when the coven is gone, top side and roaming and trying to set things right she taps her foot, black heeled and impatient.

“Why do you think they want to keep me here?”

“You can’t be trusted,” she tells the shadow on the wall that moves like it’s laughing and he comes from across the room, not behind her leaning on the bookcase like his shadow does, waiting patiently where its master has left it.

“Who of us can really say otherwise to that, Mallory?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes and he smiles back, it looks more maniac than self-assured now that it’s just the two of them.

 

*     *     *

 

It’s a habit like anything else is but it’s not one she used to have, not until someone made her think she was a personal assistant to someone who loathed the middle-class poor, someone who thought they would never move past a certain tier, the modern caste of subservience.

He gets inside her head as something else is crawling out of her but she’s used to taking care of people.

He begins to look feral in the firelight, the songs change and the food is more than gelatinous now  but the mundane glow of the end of the world leaves them both feeling they could cut themselves on their own sharp outlines, anger settles like frisson over the room.

“You’re a mess,” she says, put together in shades of grey, slacks and cashmere instead of skirts and aprons, highlights in her hair, gold jewelry and impatience for days.

His eyeshadow’s smeared and his hair is a wild halo, unbuttoned and disheveled he’s a different kind of devil with no one else around.

“Let me brush you hair.”

And he does for want of something more from her.

 

*     *     *

 

A part of her has always liked it.

A part of her has always liked to cultivate the weakness of other, to make them unable to do without.

She’s not life-sustaining or even really necessary down underground but she allows others to feel some shred of power and industry.

She controls that, it’s how she got so good.

 

*     *     *

 

 “Did you need something from me, Mallory?”

He idles, draw a heart on the fogged glass, cock proud, hand almost just giving it another self-indulgent pump.

He’s naked and wet and hard and she could choke on him if she wanted.

“I just wanted to see what you were packing.”

He’s amused, endlessly. “And am I adequate?” he asks.

“Sure, but it’s skill that counts, you know.”

He walks past her and she hands him his towel.

 

*     *     *

 

His velvet jacket has started to wear thin, the pants she’s borrowed have holes in the hems from her bare heels and the floor.

“There’s nothing more erotic than seeing a woman wear your clothes.”

“I hear it’s the other way around for some guys, they like to wear women’s underwear.”

“But you don’t wear underwear, Mallory.”

 

*     *     *

 

She feels drunk, is drunk. He high on fumes from hell.

“Not to sound like a sell-out to my sisters but you’re almost the last guy on earth and I’m getting sick of fingering myself.”

“That’s all?” he asks, holding his face in the cradle of his splayed fingers. “You don’t want to try something more fulfilling?”

She rises and so does he. He puts her face against the wall and presses a step closer, another, his groin against the back of her hips and the heat of his thighs alongside  hers. He hums against the top of her head, grinds in a tight circle against her and lets her feel what’s she’s been missing since the apocalypse.

“Serve me, Mallory.”

She wavers. She’s got goosies, she thinks, memory of Coco in her head, hashtagging a brunch mimosa bar moment, it’s enough to make her twist, to turn, to push him back again, careful with her hands because she’d put him through a wall if she went Jean Grey on him. 

“No fucking way.”

And she’s found her spine again.

There’s no pleasing the devil, but he’s not really the devil.

 

*     *     *

 

She cleans up after him, and all the blood, weak as a baby she could eat after he’s painted death metal pentagrams on the marble floor with split skin that sucks itself shut again.

“What have you ever really had that’s yours?” he asks, drowsily.

“Myself. You.”

“Me?”

“In here.”

“Your still just the servant who gets off on scrubbing the floors they let you think you were.”

Out of his clothes, lying on the floor, colored in his own shade of red he’s less severe and more seductive than he’s ever been.

He relents to something of his own base desires, reaching weakly, bats at her where there should be a caress.

He’s got blood enough left to make his dick rise, his eyes flutter prettily.

 

*     *     *

 

She can play the piano she rediscovers while sitting at the bench, idling along the keys.

He listen to Lullaby for a while, lurking.

She remembers how he tried to kill her, made someone else think it was their idea. He’s no better than Cordelia Goode, maybe that’s why he’s meant to be Supreme.

‘Alpha,’ she snorts, he blinks, aware of her again and not just the music.

He can read her mind as well as she can hide it, even then it’s not hard to tell what she must be thinking, she hasn’t made it hard.

 

*     *     *

 

On his arrival, on their first meeting she felt, somewhere what he was.

Spoke out and drawn all the eyes to herself when he introduced himself.

He’d walked past her on his way from the room and she’d followed, found him gone too quickly.

She hadn’t understood it at the time.

 

*     *     *

 

 

The radio plays Paint it Black on his arrival but it’s a Queen’s Of the Stone Age remix that gives her away later, they fuck on the couch, a two backed beast in Fenty and Hugo Boss.

 

*     *     *

 

She lights the fires with her mind, pulls a drink closer to her hand with a thought.

His torn skin pulls together, the snakes gather around his shoes.

Nuclear winter howls above ground.

 

*     *     *

 

Tacky blood on his too smooth soles, she sucks on his tongue and his fingertips drip blood down her hips, wrists smearing it across her lower back, rivulets down his own thighs, puddling around his toes, under Coco’s left behind Louboutins.

She steps down from them like stairs, his blood still body warm beneath her toes, her cunt clenches on nothing, hungry for him, she wants to eat him alive, dick first, spine second, eyes last.

She’s full with one quick push and he exhales a laugh.

 

*     *     *

 

And if his mouth is hot then her cunt is hotter as it settles over it and her arms hug the pillow, the top of her head pressed up against his headboard, his hair making her knees slide open on the bed.

It’s all open slickness and slurping.

Fingers toy her ass open and make her mouth open wide, she cradle rocks forward and back to let his tongue move up inside her, let’s his fingers stretch her open as something hisses against the back of her thigh.

 

*     *     *

 

“I wanted to see if you would come back,” he says when she returns from the dark with his cock hot inside of her, his arm pulling her to sit up in his lap, chin on her shoulder, chest on her back, his good humor rumbling all over her spine.

His lips press beneath her ear, teeth scrape her neck and she reaches forward for the headboard to press her palm to it, shove herself more fully onto him, let him shape her inside.

“You like fucking dead girls?” she asks, head hanging, neck aching from where he’d snapped it not so long ago.

“You were starting to get boring. That’s changed.”

 

*     *     *

 


End file.
